Wholock one-shots
by Topazteardrop
Summary: A bunch of Wholock one-shots, suggested by readers. Feel free to read and request I write one. Each chapter is rated individually


Wholock one-shot: John's Silence

**Authors note: ** this if my first fanfiction on this account, as well as my first Wholock one-shot. Each chapter in this story will be a different one-shot, it's easier for me to manage. So if you like Wholock, please go ahead and follow the story, and like it!

**WARNING!** Because most of my one-shots are suggested to me, they may contain smut or vulgar language. I write what the people want me to write. So at the beginning on every one-shot i will give you a maturity rating just in case you're sensitive to that kinda thing. This one is about K+, I would say.

So this wasn't a suggested one-shot, this is a crossover between Doctor Who and Sherlock that I've been meaning to write down. Disclaimer: rights belong to the BBC and all that.

I hope you enjoy!

Dr. John Watson's feet slapped the ground as he ran for his life. Sweat dripped down his forehead as he panted for breath, but not daring to slow his pace, out of fear. It was as if a voice was screaming at him in his head, _his_ voice, telling him to run, to keep running, and to not look back. It took a moment until he asked himself, _why? Why am I running? I can't even remember what I was running from. _After a second, Dr. Watson slowed his pace to walk, then to a stop. He couldn't remember why he had been running, he didn't even know exactly where he was. Trying to gather his bearings, he slowly turned on his spot, surveying his surroundings. He seemed to be in an alleyway, and by the look of the place, not a very nice one. Probably on the outs of the city. He was miles away from Baker Street! Now, how had he gotten here?

A stray thought popped into his head. _I wish Sherlock was here. _John was slightly taken aback by the thought. After all, hadn't he _been_ with Sherlock, just a little bit ago? Yes, he had, hadn't he? John struggled to remember the last time he had seen his queer flat mate. He called a memory to mind from earlier that morning, when they had been investigating a case. Sherlock had particularly liked the case, (naturally, it was a homicide case,) and had woken him up very early to look for clues. They had been poking around the scene of the murder when… that's odd. He simply couldn't remember anything else. No, wait, there was one more thing. The Scott. That crazy redhead Scottish girl who told him that if he "saw one" to mark himself, whatever that meant, and shoved a pencil of eye liner into his hand. After that, it was blank. Just blank space where a memory should be. After that he was running. He shook his head, a headache forming. As he reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, he noticed something on his hand. Slowly, he turned his hand over to see little tick marks covering his hands. Quickly he noticed them on his arms, and other hands. He looked like someone had tried to use him as a score card! As John began to panic, he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. Slowly, he pulled it out, and read the message:

_Please return to Baker Street. _

_-S.H._

For a moment, John was still. His brain seemed to be short-circuiting inside his head. Then, as if in a dream, John walked towards the main road, and flagged down a cab.

_(Time skip to Baker Street)_

"John." Sherlock raised his head upon seeing the state of his friend upon entering 221B Baker Street. Sherlock's mind went into hyper-drive, and began to asses John in a way they had both grown used to. John didn't say a word, just proceeded to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.

"John, _what _have you got all over your arms?" He demanded, staring down the doctor. John was quiet for a moment as he set the down the kettle to boil, the returned to his chair, easing into it. "Well?"

"I dunno" John replied quietly, speaking, it seemed, to the floor with weariness.

"What?" Sherlock leaned forward, and John's eyes rose to meet Sherlock's pale green eyes in a cold stare-down.

"I said I don't know, Sherlock. I have no idea why I look like a human score sheet." Sherlock leaned back, confused by Johns exasperated reply.

"Explain" Sherlock steepled his fingers and pressed them against his lips, focused.

After a moment of thought, John began to recount the actions he'd taken that day. His voice was shaky at first, but grew steadier as he became surer of his story. Sherlock didn't speak a word, but paid close attention to John. It was different than the way he listened to clients, but John was just fine with that that.

When John finished his story, Sherlock sighed, then rose.

"You don't believe me." Said John, sighing.

"I believe you, John" Sherlock replied, extending his hand towards the doctor. "Your gun, please." John hesitated, then pulled out the gun that the war veteran kept on him at all times. He handed it over to Sherlock. The detective examined the gun, and then checked its barrel. "Do you keep this gun _fully _loaded, John?"

He nodded, "yes, of course I do." Sherlock's mouth twisted into a faint smile. He turned the guns barrel was towards John, and he looked inside. "Four bullets are gone."

John stared at his gun, then looked up at his flat-mate. "Are you saying," he said, slowly "That I fired _four_ shots, _and forgot about it?_"

In a swift movement Sherlock snapped the barrel closed. "It seems so."

Sherlock looked over at John, who was looking untruthfully at the gun. _Tally marks John didn't draw, forgotten gunshots, and missing memories. Strange. _This case would not go investigated.

Until then… "Come on, John. Let's get you cleaned up."

**End Note: **I hope you enjoyed this little one-shot. Feel free to R&amp;R (read and review,) or suggest some stories below! please don't be shy. :)

Thanks for reading and I'll see you in the near future!


End file.
